TURIN,—AFTER NEWS FROM GAETA, 1861.
Laura Savio of Turin, a poetess and patriot, whose sons were killed at Ancona and Gaëta.
Dead! one of them shot by the sea in the east,
And one of them shot in the west by the sea. Dead! both my boys! When you sit at the feast,
And are wanting a great song for Italy free, Let none look at me!
Yet I was a poetess only last year,
And good at my art, for a woman, men said. But this woman, this, who is agonized here,
The east sea and west sea rhyme on in her head Forever instead.
What art can a woman be good at? O, vain!
What art is she good at, but hurting her breast With the milk teeth of babes, and a smile at the pain?
Ah, boys, how you hurt! you were strong as you pressed, And I proud by that test.
What art's for a woman! To hold on her knees
Both darlings! to feel all their arms round her throat Cling, struggle a little! to sew by degrees
And 'broider the long-clothes and neat little coat! To dream and to dote.
To teach them ... It stings there. I made them indeed
Speak plain the word "country," I taught them, no doubt, That a country 's a thing men should die for at need.
I prated of liberty, rights, and about The tyrant turned out.
And when their eyes flashed ... O my beautiful eyes! ...
I exulted! nay, let them go forth at the wheels Of the guns, and denied not.—But then the surprise,
When one sits quite alone!—Then one weeps, then one kneels! —God! how the house feels!
At first happy news came, in gay letters moiled
With my kisses, of camp-life and glory, and how They both loved me, and soon, coming home to be spoiled,
In return would fan off every fly from my brow With their green laurel-bough.
Then was triumph at Turin. "Ancona was free!"
And some one came out of the cheers in the street With a face pale as stone, to say something to me.
—My Guido was dead!—I fell down at his feet,
While they cheered in the street.